


The Writer's Block

by YumYumPM



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 08:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2061066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YumYumPM/pseuds/YumYumPM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was having writer's block and this story resulted. 2003</p>
<p>Having caused mayhem in the lives of a couple of innocents Illya decides to use his cover as a freelance travel writer to make amends.  However he's having writer's block.  Who comes to his rescue but his partner. Now the question is - when did Napoleon develop a talent for writing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Writer's Block

Illya Kuryakin ran his fingers through his hair, damning the business he was in. True his last assignment had not cost any innocents their lives. Still there should have been some way he could have prevented what happened. He pored over his report one last time, but no - there had been no way to prevent the destruction.

He couldn’t get out of his mind the look of utter horror on the faces of the young couple whose hopes and dreams he had so thoroughly dashed. Not that he had had any choice. He doubted that even if his partner Solo had been there, things would have worked out any different. Still there should be something he could do about it now.

He cursed the fact that his cover identity of Ian Kovak, a freelance travel writer working on a story for an internationally acclaimed travel magazine, had not fooled the people he had been sent to investigate and had forced him to take action.

What if he put his cover identity to good use? He pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, closed his eyes for a moment picturing what he wanted to say, then set pen to paper.

He was crumpling yet another sheet, when Napoleon entered his office twenty minutes later. 

“Ah…Illya, umm, I have just a few...er...questions about the…Catskill…” Napoleon seemed to lose his train of thought as he took in the abundance of crumpled paper littering the floor around the base of his partner’s desk. "Affair." He waved his hand toward the mess as he set down the folder he was carrying. “Might I ask what this is all about?”

“Well, Napoleon,” Illya said, his face flushed with embarrassment. “It is like this…” and he proceeded to explain.

Napoleon listened intently for a few moments before holding up a hand interrupting. “I’ve read your report. In fact, one of the questions I had was did you really need to blow up the ski lift?”

Illya gave a deprecating shrug, one corner of his mouth twitched upward. “I suppose I could have let them kill me.”

Napoleon seemed to consider it, then let out a disgruntled humph. “Nah, then I would have had to train a new partner.” He perched on the edge of the crowded desk. “So what are you doing?”

“I thought…just maybe…if Ian wrote an article…?” Illya suggested with just a touch of hesitancy, as if sure Napoleon would laugh.

“Hmm, not a bad idea. Let’s see what you’ve got.” Napoleon held out his hand.

Illya, with a tad of apprehension, passed what he’d written so far to his partner, watching as Napoleon ran a swift eye over it.

“Umm.” Napoleon's eyes roamed over the sheet. It read like Illya's reports - neat, concise, and technical. Not necessarily something that would tempt people to stay at the resort. “Perhaps if you told me a bit more about the resort?”

“Well, there is this large lodge with a few smaller cabins near it. There is the ski lift, or there was one, and…”

Napoleon shook his head. “What I mean is, what was it about this place that made you want to help?”

Illya bit the inside of his mouth as he looked at Napoleon, making sure he was not being laughed at. “They are a nice young couple, Napoleon, who have worked so hard to make a go of this.”

“We’ve met people like that before. Why are they so special that you feel... ”

“It is rather hard to explain.”

“Try. What was it you found so intriguing about this place?”

Illya closed his eyes, trying to get his thoughts together. “It wasn’t so much intriguing as it was…” this was so frustrating why couldn’t he just explain it.

“Let me guess. The food was wonderful,” Napoleon threw out, trying to be helpful.

Illya laughed. “No. Actually the food was rather dreadful. In fact the guests ended up doing most of the cooking.” He paused for a moment as a thought occurred to him. “In fact the guests ended up doing almost everything… and the funny thing was… nobody seemed to mind.”

Napoleon raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Nobody?”

“Nobody,” Illya stated firmly. Thinking back, even the pickiest of the guests had not minded, “It made everyone appear…superior. That they knew more about running a resort than the owners.”

“Odd.” Napoleon stared off into space for a moment. “And they enjoyed it?”

“Ah humm,” Illya said. “Even I enjoyed it.” Shaking himself out of his reverie. “It’s hard to explain.” It had felt like being part of a family, or what Illya imagined a family would be like, where everyone pitched in.

“Odder still.” A mischievous grin spread across Napoleon’s face. 

Illya sent a sharp glance to the Americans face. Surely Napoleon wasn’t reading his mind?

“I can’t imagine you enjoying having to do housework or cook.”

The corner of Illya’s mouth twitched. “Well, I did,” he admitted.

Napoleon gathered up all the bits and pieces scattered over the floor. “Tell you what…give me a little time and let me see what I can come up with?”

“Napoleon, you don’t have to…,” Illya protested.

“I know that…but this is important to you?”

“It is,” Illya stated simply.

“So let me see what I can come up with.” and with a parting smile Napoleon was gone.

***

Napoleon sat at his desk wondering what had possessed him to make this offer. It wasn't as if he couldn't, he had confidence in his ability to whip up something. He just wasn't sure why. Then he remembered that fleeting look on Illya's face, quickly hidden.

He had worked long enough with his partner to know he wasn't as cold-hearted as some people claimed. In spite of the differences in their backgrounds, they were both suckers, looking for that happy ending, knowing that most times there wasn't any.

Mentally reviewing Illya's words, he flexed his fingers and began to type. His fingers moved faster as the words began to flow. Twenty-five minutes later he pulled the sheet from the typewriter, pleased with the results.

***

The next morning Illya found a manila envelope on his desk. Opening it he found a well planned and very professional looking article. Reading over it, Illya was amazed at the amount of detail Napoleon had managed to garner from his admittedly pitiful amount of information. He turned a page; even the family atmosphere was mentioned. This was really good. Almost too good and Illya wondered who Napoleon had conned into helping him. He reached for the phone to thank Napoleon when a note that had been attached caught his eye.

IK- sorry this was the best I could do. Waverly just contacted me about an assignment, so I may be gone for awhile. If this meets with your approval just initial it and send it in. I have already spoken with the editor and he is expecting it.

NS

Illya read it through one more time before picking up his pen and initialing it. He put it back into the envelope and re-addressed it. Satisfied, he leaned back in his chair. Some days it felt good to be an agent.

***

All in all it was turning out to be a good day. The weather was nice. He was caught up on his paperwork and, more important, the Hooper's had been pleased with the article that had been published. When Illya finally got a chance to corner Napoleon to thank him and find out how he had managed to write such a great article, all he managed to get out of the man was a shrug and an inscrutable smile. Annoying since he was supposed to be the inscrutable one.

Their last assignment was a cakewalk. Now, with two days free, Illya was roaming the neighborhood, enjoying life. He paused in front of his favorite bookstore and decided a few books would be just the thing to round out his day.

The tinkle of the bell chimed as Illya shut the door, his eyes scanning the familiar layout. Nothing seemed to have changed since his last visit. The young girl who worked behind the counter looked up at his entrance giving him a shy smile, which he returned, before going back to unpacking new books.

Nodding to a few familiar faces, he roamed through the musty bookshelves finding several books that interested him. After spending an enjoyable hour roaming the stacks he finally approached the counter with his selections.

The young girl, Bekka, if he remembered correctly, smiled as she stopped her work and reached for his books. “Ready to check out?”

“Yes. I see some new books have come in?” Illya answered, nodding toward the box.

“Um, yes.” She said, not meeting his eyes as she tallied his purchases.

“May I?” he asked permission to look.

“Oh…these wouldn’t be your cup of tea...ummm…probably…, Mr. K,” Bekka said rather hurriedly, her face reddening. "They're for...special customers, if you know what I mean."

"Let me be the judge of that," he said with a smile. He looked over the selection, puzzled by her reaction. One with a red cover caught his fancy. “Tell you what. Why not add that one to the rest?” he asked pointing out the one he was interested in.

The young girl looked taken aback. “Are you sure?” 

“Quite sure, my dear.” The Russian smiled charmingly as he pulled out his wallet to pay for his purchases. Glancing back as he opened the door to leave, he was perplexed. She was staring at him, her eyes wide and her mouth opened in shock.

***

Later that night as Illya readied himself for bed. Settling down in his one overstuffed chair with a nice large glass of chilled vodka, glancing at his coffee table on which his new purchases lay scattered, and he debated which one to read first.

His eyes automatically going to the brightly colored cover of the book that Bekka had seemed reluctant to sell him and picked it up. The only thing gracing the cover was the title and authors name. Monk’s Fate - Julius Duecet. He shook his head ruefully, frowned at the name of the book, and started to toss it aside. The young clerk had been right, it was definitely not his type of reading material. 

The blurb on the back read simply 'On a quest to return a lost relic to its proper place, a young monk finds the world outside the monastery a place of sexual temptation'.

Something about it peaked Illya's interest. Not sure why, he settled back in his chair, then opened the book to the title page. If nothing else it would wile away the hours. 

In the year 1181 in Northern Italy, Brother Antonio was awaken from his slumber by the feeling that his life was about to change. A young novice, having been left at the Sacra di san Michele monastery at a very young age, it wasn't until yesterday when he was finally deemed to be of age to be inducted to the brotherhood. The Abbott Ermengardo had officiated over the induction of the new Brother and three others at Tonsure, seeing to it the small section of their heads were shaved in the manner required by the order. 

His eyes were lowered respectfully as the new Prior berated him for being late, his harsh words reflected his displeasure. What Antonio did not understand was what he had done to offend the Prior, who was making it his lifework to discipline him for any little wrong he might perceive. He was not to know that it was for his comeliness that he was being punished.

Thus it was that Antonio found himself in a dark, dank, dungeon, sorting through the filth and taking quill to paper as he inventory one of the oldest storage areas in the monastery. The room was huge and piled high with broken furniture and other items. It was going to take him months to make a dent in the space. 

Illya thought that the rest of the book might prove uninteresting, but surprisingly enough on further reading he found he was wrong. He became engrossed in the Monk's endeavor to sort out the years of grunge and find time to keep up with his other duties, of which there were many. Illya was just beginning to lose interest when a small chest was found. A locked chest. He ended up suspending his belief at the ways the young monk went about trying to break the lock. How would the main character know do use tools that way and would those tools have been available? 

He let out a deep breath, thanks to the author's descriptive narrative. The item that had been slowly unwrapped was meticulously described and matched the description of a religious icon that that he could have sworn he and his partner had seen not more than ten months previously in the Soviet Union. 'Archangel Michael, Defender of the faith'. It had to be a coincident. He shook his head, and continued reading. He wasn't even sure why, but for some reason he wanted to know more. 

Irritation set in as he read how the monk tried to bring the icon to the Abbot's attention only to be shot down by the Prior. It was several pages with many twists and turns before the Abbot and the monk got together and by then it was almost anticlimactic. The all knowing Abbot, who reminded Illya somewhat of Mr. Waverly, knew at an instant the significance of the relic. Go figure. It was his decision to send Brother Antonio to return it to the Russian government. The Brother, of course, had many questions to which he received no answers. The Prior volunteered to accompany the young monk, though his motive was certainly not of pure intent. Illya winced on reading that the Abbot actually agreed.

The notion that the young monk was traveling with the duplicitous Prior had Illya skimming through the next few pages, until he got to the part where the two monks were set upon by bandits. Not surprising the Prior begged for his life to be spared, while the young monk did his best to defend his superior. Illya was just about to put the book away when, for some reason that he could not phantom, a paragraph leaped out at him. 

Along came a knight clad in light armor, who made short work of the evil ones. The fighting soon over, the young monk ran to where his elder lay. The knight, pulling his sword from his last victim, crossed over to them. Removing his helmet, the moonlight glanced off his light colored hair. He placed a hand on the shoulder of the young monk and asked in a language unknown to the monk if everything was all right. Brother Antonio, who did not understand, looked up from where he held the injured Prior in his arms. The elder Prior, barely conscious, translated. 

Illya suddenly wanted to know more.

The three men eventually end up at a nearby inn. The Prior on his deathbed begged for his life promising the knight the icon. The ‘white knight’, Ivan Krasata, had looked down with disdain at the monk and watched him breath his last. Then the innkeeper, a young widow, comforted the young monk after the loss of his prior. He found the descriptive sexual antics of a young man being seduced by an experienced older woman fairly amusing. Their escapades were graphically explicit. Was this the reason that the young sales clerk had not wanted to sell him this book?

Over the next several chapters, the two men travel and meet several young women, all of whom end up seducing the young monk, whose inexperience at sexual encounters is soon rectified. Illya frowned and wondered why the monk was the only one being seduced. What was wrong with the Russian? He was coming across as sexually naïve. 

The actions of the bandits were hysterical, as they tried time and time again to capture the icon, only to be thwarted by the two men. As he turned page after page, it started to seep into Illya’s mind that some of the story sounded familiar. Especially the descriptive parts of the young knight who in various parts of the story had been described as tenacious, stubborn, and brooding with, as the author put it, wheat gold hair and piercing blue eyes.

Illya’s eyes narrowed when he came to the final chapter. The two men had reached the final destination of the icon, presenting it with much flourish to the Russian Emperor. The Russian knight, as it turned out had been in the service of the emperor all this time. Their mission complete, the two men prepared to go their separate ways. A banquet was ordered in honor of Brother Antonio’s departure. There was much food and wine. Too much wine for the young monk as it turned out. Ivan helped Brother Antonio back to his quarters. The young monk, much inebriated, turned his newly developed libido in the direction of Krasata. 

He huffed heavily with indignation as he got to the end of the book, several long and descriptive chapters later. Suspicion running through him with each page turned. Though the names had been changed, he could have sworn that the descriptions fitted several female THRUSH agents of Napoleon’s acquaintance. He bit his lower lip. Surely it was a coincident. Julius Caesar/Napoleon Bonaparte? Both Emperors. Solo/One? Duecet/Two? It could not be. Was Julius Duecet an alias for – Napoleon Solo?

***

“Hold on. I’m coming,” Illya hollered as he slipped on his jacket, covering his holster. 

As soon as the door opened, Napoleon slipped through. “What’s the problem? Do you know how long I have been waiting outside? It’s not like….”

Illya looked up as he adjusted his jacket to his shoulders wondering why Napoleon had stopped in the middle of his tirade. Napoleon’s face changed from beet red to as white as a ghost. Illya’s eyes following his partner’s gaze to the book with its red cover that lay casually thrown on the coffee table. His reason for running late this morning. “Was there something important we needed to be at work for?” Illya asked with studied casualness.

“Nooo.” Napoleon wrenched his eyes away and he headed for the door. “Let’s go.”

Illya wasn’t to be put off so easily. “Is there something you wish to tell me?”

Illya watched as Napoleon pressed his head against the door. “Not really.”

Taking the bull by the horn, or rather the U.N.C.L.E. agent by the arm, Illya not so gently guided Napoleon to his sofa and pushed him down. Pushing the book closer toward his startled partner, Illya asked, “Your work I assume?”

Napoleon stared at the lurid cover, unable to meet the Russian’s eyes. “Why would you say that?”

The Russian stood over him, his feet braced apart, arms crossed at his chest and looked up at his ceiling. “Your reaction perhaps?”

Napoleon still wasn’t looking at him, he had the look of someone cornered. Illya knew that looks could be deceiving. “Give it up, Napoleon. I know better.”

A rueful chuckle heralded a quick change in demeanor, and with an apologetic look directed at the Russian, Napoleon Solo was once again his confident, overbearing self. He leaned back into the sofa, his hands laced behind his head, his feet propped against the coffee table. “I should have known better then to try to put one past you. So what is it you want to know?”

Napoleon found it amusing to watch his partner’s normally unreadable face as it went through a variety of expressions that only he could read. Expressions that said there were too many questions and he didn’t know where to start. Taking pity on him, Napoleon suggested, “Why don’t I start at the beginning? You remember last year when I was laid up.”

Illya nodded. He had good reason to remember that time. Napoleon had been laid up almost three months and he had ended up spending quite a bit of time in the labs because of it.

“Well, I got bored.”

That had been an understatement. 

“So you decided to write a pornographic book?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I didn’t decide to write…, and it is not porn it is called slash.”

“I have read this book, Napoleon. It is porn.”

“You have? What did you think?” Napoleon asked eagerly. He cleared his throat, getting the conversation back to its original start. “As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted. I was bored, so then Annie, you remember Dr. Ann Rice?”

Illya remembered her very well. The staff psychologist. He shivered slightly; he never liked her. She reminded him of a Vampiress. Her sharp eyes always on a look out for any slip of the tongue.

“Well she suggested I put my pent up energy to use and write a book.”

“So you decided to write a pornographic book?” Illya repeated.

“I told you…” Napoleon sighed. “Never mind. The book started out as a historical mystery type book. I got the idea from the book you lent me. You know the one, by what’s her name.”

“Lindsey Davis,” Illya supplied. “Are you now saying this book is my fault?” His voice rose an octave, as he pointed to the red cover.

“Illya, Illya.” Napoleon tried to placate the affronted Russian. “I’m not saying that at all. Look do you want to hear this or not?”

Illya, glared and crossed his arms.

“I wrote a perfectly simple adventure story. I thought a monk would be appropriate, since I had no choice but to live like one at the time. I never planned on anyone reading it, but Annie must have. She sent it to a publisher friend of hers and he said he would publish it.” Napoleon shook his head. When he gotten the letter from the publisher he’d been in shock. He still was in a way. “But he insisted on a few changes.”

“What sort of changes?”

“Well, he said sex sells.”

Illya picked up the book and leafed through it. “That I can understand. I thought I recognized some of the women from your descriptions. But why did you have to use me?”

“What makes you think the knight is based on you?”

“Really, Napoleon. Just how many blue-eyed blonds with a foreign accent do you know?”

Napoleon started to point out Mark Slate, but decided better on it. “It was easier to write about someone I knew.”

“Napoleon, you do not know me. At least not this way,” Illya said tapping the book with his finger.

“I don’t know what you are worried about. Nobody would recognize you. Not everyone reads… that type of book. Certainly no one I know,” Napoleon muttered under his breath.

“How do you know? Someone is sure to notice, after all I did.”

“That puzzles me. Just why were you reading…”

Illya turned bright red. “That’s beside the point. The point is that some of the things you have us doing in this story have got to be anatomically impossible.”

Napoleon snatched the book back from Illya. “No they’re not.”

“And you know this for a fact?”

“Well, not really, but I have a really good imagination. I can always fix it in the next book.”

“The next book? You mean there are going to be more?”

“Ahuh. The publisher wants me to do a whole series.”

Illya let out a groan. “Napoleon, I cannot let you do that.”

“So what are you going to do? Sue me? That would mean admitting the character is based on you. Come to think of it … it might help sales.”

Illya knew defeat when he saw it. “Okay. If you persist on continuing with this madness, at least let me help.” He moved to sit on the sofa next to Napoleon.

Napoleon blinked in surprise. “You’re not actually suggesting…”

“No.” Illya said, a grin plastered across his face, as he pulled away. “I had you going there, though.”

Napoleon didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. “Just what were you suggesting then?”

Illya shrugged. “Just that I help you out wherever you need it. I have a vested interest in seeing that my character is portrayed accurately. I admit I never considered our partnership heading in this direction. But…why not?”

As the two agents finally set out for work Napoleon asked, “You know, you never did tell me how you ended up with my book?”

A flushed Russian thought about it as he opened the door to his apartment. “I’m not really sure. It must have been…fate. By the way, I expect to be compensated for my help.”

“Don’t worry.” Napoleon said as they trotted side by side down the stairway. “A hefty percent of whatever I make will be yours. You’ll earn it. I may need help with titles as well as… other things.” His eyebrows wiggled suggestively.

“Of course.” Illya said with a straight face. “After all it wouldn’t do for you to develop writer’s block.”


End file.
